


The Far Horizon

by Aenigmatic



Category: Sanditon (TV 2019), Sanditon - Jane Austen
Genre: Belligerence pays off, Consensual, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, Infidelity, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 08:51:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21158927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aenigmatic/pseuds/Aenigmatic
Summary: Charlotte Heywood’s return to Willingden is supposed to be the epilogue of a story written in stone. But in the months following, she discovers that grief can turn to anger and anger can mask something else entirely…that even a prior engagement cannot prove an obstacle big enough to overcome what fate has in store.





	The Far Horizon

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe a fix-it. Because I’m feeling belligerent and it shows. So not quite the angst that many other fics do so well, but an angrier version of both Charlotte and Sidney, in a series of random snapshots of life post-Sanditon. It’s my own way of working out my unhappiness with the end of that horrific episode.

In her dreams, there is the crunch of gravel underfoot, the constant murmur of voices, the muted roar of the bracing sea breeze underpinning memories that would last a lifetime and still flood into the next. They coalesce into one another, from a gilded balcony to a walk on a clifftop, to the dying embers of a building that had been the foreshadowing of a crumbling dream. 

But even in dreams, Charlotte Heywood loses track of the game. The ghosts chase her even in sleep, and their taunts do not fade when she awakens with her breath still caught in her throat.

In Willingden, save for the slight snuffles and even breaths of her siblings, there is nothing but stillness. The darkness outside is vaguely menacing, but she only sees the dim light of the sole burning candle distorting a wan face in the window pane.

For a long moment, she watches the wax dribble over the side of the candle, lost in the hypnotic, dancing flame.

The sting of rejection still burns bitter and bright, all things considered, even if it had all been for a good cause. It’d carried the force of a slap to the face, when Sidney Parker had revealed the last-ditch measure he’d taken to save their family from ruin.

Charlotte casts a glance at her siblings—their faces are slack in sleep, oblivious to the vexing emotions that arise wherever matters of the heart are concerned. She digs her fingernails hard, into her palms as though the force of the pain could stop her eyes from growing hot and moist.

Sanditon lies behind her (or at least it should) now both literally and mentally—a once-pathway to adventure that a wiser woman than her should permanently erase.

If Sidney Parker had been a recipient of a broken heart, with his rude demeanour and chilly countenance standing testament of how far he’d learned to shut himself away after Mrs. Campion’s betrayal, how ironic then, that she is now the unwitting student in the same lesson he’d learned so long ago—one that he’d personally doled out himself, though it had been with no small amount of anguish when he’d delivered the news of his engagement to Mrs. Campion.

Maybe for that alone, she should consider herself deeply indebted to him, for instructing her about the fragility of hope and that with certain circumstances, some conclusions are indeed, foregone. Indeed, she should have probably thanked him for that searing lesson learned all too quickly for uncovering the extent of the fool she’d been when it came to her peculiar sensibilities.

Perhaps he regrets his choice but does so out of obligation and duty, yet through rose-tinted lenses, there is a certain romantic ring in choosing Mrs. Campion once again—lovers yet reunited after a decade—, as provocative and coquettish as she’d been about hiding her jibes within the stifling confines of high society’s penchant for laying out veiled insults.

Perhaps how he’d esteemed her truly pales in comparison to the importance of his family—wouldn’t it be uncharitable if she were really to begrudge him this?

_Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. _

Only idle and fanciful thoughts come out of conjecture and regrets, shaped daily by a growing bitterness and pain that haven’t yet been quelled.

No matter how the truth is framed, she can at least now laugh at the impulsiveness and naïveté that she’d worn like a badge of honour amid the pain. To stop her thoughts on Mr. Parker’s impending nuptials in London to the country’s richest and most elegant widow is akin to stopping the relentless waves that beat on Sanditon’s shores: futile and a never-ending, torturous cycle that ebbs and flows like the tide.

But she has weathered the excruciating passing of time in the weeks since returning from the seaside town; she can endure more until the ache becomes a scar that can be hidden and ignored.

oOo

The emotional fissure that is slowly closing is rent apart with the sudden arrival of an invitation from London. The simplicity of the request nonetheless, forces her into a circuitous walk into the next village and back again when her distress shows no sign of abating.

_The intricacies of the London high society are as tiresome as they are overwhelming. Would it be remiss of me to request the pleasure of your presence for the coming London season?_

_If you would allow me to offer you, my dear Charlotte, a different perspective in light of your eventful summer in Sanditon…my carriage and home await your favourable response. _

_Susan_—as the letter is simply signed—demonstrates the power of her connections in so few words that refusal becomes an impossibility. This strange, bewildering favour Susan had shown her from the very start is a friendship she hopes will outlast the fickle London seasons and stretch into the years to come; Charlotte is not too naïve to know that her part in this is to simply keep their conversations flowing and as honestly as she can.

But this letter…_this short note_…

Grief, the endless grief—for the loss of what she’d fleetingly had, akin to the loss of a loved one—is a hard slam in her chest, bringing back to the surface the despair that she’d tenuously fought to bury.

There is no promise that she will not make the acquaintance yet again of Mrs. Campion and Sidney. Susan has quite wisely, not mentioned a word about her broken heart though surely it is the kind of news that would have reached Susan the very day he’d engaged himself to her.

Charlotte reads and re-reads Susan’s note, then with dreaded anticipation, writes and re-writes several variations of a suitable reply.

oOo

Nothing prepares her for the elegance of the Lady Worcester’s Mayfair residence and a London townhouse that is equally impressive. Then again, why should this be a surprise?

As unaccustomed as she is to the sprawling, effortless luxury around her, Charlotte understands that there are rules—unspoken or otherwise—that a lady should adhere to, more so as she comes under the inevitable scrutiny of Susan’s associates as the season progresses. For all the freedom that Charlotte had with her weighty thoughts back in Willingden, London’s pomposity is a different kind of stifling found in wagging tongues’ veiled barbs and the tightness of one’s smiles.

Only in London can she count the time passing in the number of balls that she attends. With the coy use of a fan, Susan points out potential suitors with a gentleness that suggests a level of empathy that runs deeper than what anyone suspects.

The nights in contrast, are spent penning letters to her family and the desperate but ultimately futile attempts to put Sidney Parker from her mind.

oOo

It is during the third ball in the season held at the Viscount Wakefield’s mansion that the atmosphere suddenly shifts with the excited murmurs of the crowd.

Sidney Parker and Mrs. Campion sweep in from the top of the winding staircase, a picture of sartorial elegance and fashionable lateness. They descend the curved staircase like royalty and her breath is stolen from her as it is surely taken from the other curious attendees who cannot take their eyes off London’s newest, high-profile pair.

Shock and need anchor her feet to the floor as she stares at them from the periphery of the ballroom.

There is nothing from this distance to suggest that their engagement had been forged out of dire need, yet only the slight furrow in Mr. Parker’s brow and the stiffness with which he extends his arm to Mrs. Campion as they head towards the dance floor betray his discomfort. 

Once, she’d accused him of being an outlier. Seeing them now, the revelation that perhaps _she_ is the outlier instead—a fraud of a country girl ill-suited to such company—sends her reeling.

Dropping her gaze, she tests the truth of that statement, weighing it against the last meaningful conversation she’d had with him in the carriage in London in their search for Georgiana. Had she been so wrong, so struck by the rightness of her own opinions that—

At that inopportune moment, she glances up again, only to see Mr. Parker turn sharply in her direction, their eyes meeting in a flash that sorely tests her resolve to stay indifferent and composed.

How she’d forgotten what it had been like to be the centre of his attention, to be captured by that intense, magnetic stare—

_No_. She—she _cannot_ do this. 

If time back in Willingden had falsely imputed a sense of security of her own emotional recovery, this very scene, this dreaded moment merely demonstrates that she is just as unhinged as she’d been the day she left Sanditon.

“Charlotte? My dear, are you quite alright?”

A warm hand falls on hers, shaking her out of her distress long enough to reassure Susan that all she needs is some air by a secluded balcony. 

Tearing her eyes away is a monumental effort performed only out of reflex and propriety. In a whirl of satin and chiffon, she takes her leave hastily and tries to calm a racing heart that would not comply with her wishes.

The prospect of returning to the ball is suddenly an intimidating one.

Charlotte lifts her hand, presses it upon her chest, her temple but then she is spun roughly around by a grip on her shoulder so hard that it forces her to turn and stumble headlong into a hard chest as her skirts billow around her.

“It is you. It is really you.” His whisper is loud in the relative silence of the small space. “I thought I had finally gone mad, seeing you in the small spaces where there is usually nothing.”

His gaze devours her, as stormy and frantic as hers surely is, with a hand wrapped around her waist, the other still tightly holding her wrist.

Robbed of words, she can only stare at him, taking him in as avidly as he is looking at her.

This is so very wrong. Entirely inappropriate. Wholly improper.

They are supposed to never cross paths despite moving in similar circles even though it could have been a possibility as Susan had warned. Her noble intention of steering clear of Mr. Parker and Mrs. Campion had nonetheless, lulled her into believing that she had control over her own desires and actions.

But the only thing that she had discounted is an outcome where something other than torment and agony fills the space between them.

Simmering anger and resentment. Unfulfilled wanting. All etched on his gaunt, wan face…as it must similarly be etched on hers.

In all her imaginings about how a conversation would go down between them, she thinks it would have been filled with impersonal talk about the weather and vague, brief discussions about his well-being...far, far down the road when Mrs. Campion had long become Mrs. Parker.

Just not this.

Not when she sees the naked emotions reflected on his face, the helplessness and tragic brooding that had also somehow turned into something more feverishly predatory.

A not-too-unfamiliar curl of heat is her body’s own involuntary response to it.

“Mr. Parker.” That she can even move her mouth and force intelligible words with it is a miracle.

A part of her thinks they should fill the silence with nothing but pleasantries, though she suspects that he will not tolerate any attempt to do so, not when they have long gone past that.

“Charlotte.”

“That would be Miss Heywood to you.” She is quick to correct his inappropriate address, though her pointed look at his unrelenting grip on her does nothing to warn him to keep a respectable gap between them.

He shakes his head mockingly. “Such distance.”

Contrary to whatever he thinks, she knows that this distance is necessary. It would help keep her façade of equanimity, lest she falls into hysterics over this turn of events.

“Mr Parker, I believe we parted with words wishing each other happiness. Let us make peace with this—”

He laughs darkly, interrupting her contrived words. “If you think there is peace to be made with this, then you are a fool. As I have been.”

What use is there reiterating what had already been done and dusted?

Charlotte tries to shrug him off, but his hold does not let up. “I must go, Mr. Parker. I believe Mrs. Campion awaits you.”

With some force she wrenches away just as he finally releases her, though the heat of his touch lingers for days.

oOo

The day before Charlottes prepares to leave London for Willingden, Susan mysteriously disappears for an impromptu meeting with a ‘special friend’ though the glint in her eyes as she steps into the carriage suggests that there is more than what meets the eye.

Shortly after her carriage rolls away, Susan’s butler announces a new arrival whom he’d tucked securely away in the second, smaller drawing room, far from the servants’ quarters.

The only person who knows she is here, Charlotte realises with growing certainty, is the same man whom she’d left on a balcony some nights ago. His insistence on paying her this visit—so serendipitously as Susan is out—is suspect and at this point in time, unwelcome.

Charlotte lets him wait as she stands at her room window, unable to stop herself from shaking as she contemplates the clothing that has already been neatly folded and packed away. Only a month ago in Willingden, this would have been absurdity of the highest order.

Sidney Parker stands as she enters the large space, unreadable from where she stops at the open door.

He inches forward; she holds her ground, despite seeing the same unholy light in his eyes.

There are no more preliminaries. Exhaustion and agony mingle, lending her words a briskness that belie her own inability to keep herself grounded in his overwhelming presence. She’d bled enough the day he wished her every happiness and more so in the months following. Whether he’d done the same…whether he’d regretted his actions…this is truly no business of hers.

“Why are you here?”

He faces her directly. “To finish what we began.”

“To finish what, Mr. Parker? Surely you must know that I was in Willingden had you any unfinished business to bring up all those months ago. Pray, enlighten me, what else is there to say by now?”

Now that she’d begun, the words cannot seem to stop. “In fact, you have given me quite a bit of clarity when your engagement was made for money. You forget yourself, sir.”

She tilts her chin up at him, a subtle dare to lay his own part out against her callous dismissal, to contradict her harsh words when the irony of his own arrangement with Mrs. Campion cannot be lost on him.

To find him on her heels—the _ubiquitous Mr. Parker_ indeed—is not the kind of flattery she realises she yearns for, especially if he now belongs to someone else.

So why _can’t_ they simply move past this point?

More importantly, why _hadn’t_ he moved past this? With elaborate wedding preparations, a fiancée who is the richest widow in England and Sanditon conveniently saved, there is too much to occupy his time for him to bother with her.

In the background, a door slams shut, leaving a heavy silence ringing in her ears.

She flinches just as Sidney closes the distance between them.

“Stop. There is nothing—”

With a wave of his hand, he cuts her off before reaching out to touch her loose-flowing hair. “You were never a liar, Charlotte. Don’t presume to be what you never were. There is _everything_ between us.” More softly, he adds, “As a matter of fact, I have thought of little else but you. Of the injustice I’ve done to you, the choice I’d made, the price of which you paid dearly for.”

Against her better judgement, she takes a small step forward, then relishes the faltering hesitation on his face, before he calculatingly mirrors her move until they are nearly chest to chest.

"Have you?"

A thrust, a parry. A bait or a web, ensnaring her once more within his reach. But they are evenly matched, just as they always were. Yet this is what is left of them, given their propensities to adhere to propriety. Familial duty before oneself.

His nod is a small jerk of the chin, as though it pains him greatly to make this admission.

Driven wholly by instinct, Charlotte knows what she says next will irrevocably alter the course of things.

If his honour and integrity had propelled him to marriage for Mrs. Campion's coveted and sizeable fortune, then should she really challenge these very traits that could very well break him as he’d broken her? Despite having been taught in the worst way possible that unions are transactional, should she then, not take some stolen memories for herself wherever she could?

A peculiar feeling churns in her stomach as she gives into impulse to fire her taunt.

“Prove yourself.”

The last she sees is his smirk before his lips slam down on hers, then the familiar taste of him comes flooding back. It is akin to tumbling back into a dream from which she doesn’t want to wake up, then finding it all too real.

Unlike the gentleness he’d shown when he’d first kissed her—that man who’d been so attentive to her every comfort…there is no sign of that man today. Desperation lends roughness to his kiss and in that roughness, he shows her wordlessly that his passion hasn’t dimmed a whit.

He breaks off without warning, his chest heaving as hers is. With a hand already tugging at her chemise, his challenge is rasped in her ear, so closely that she feels his breath on her exposed décolletage. Then his hands are in her hair, tangling the free-flowing locks of hair further, his palms cupping her face.

“Should you find this objectionable, Miss Heywood—”

Charlotte cuts him off with an impatient gesture. Years from now, she knows that she will remember this day and will want to remember it with no regret.

“The only objectionable action is your inability to carry this to fruition.”

Weeks of frustration and wanting melt as he pulls her waist in snugly with a chuckle, shock replacing surprise when he shifts his hands under her skirts to lift a leg and curl it around his hip. The rush of molten heat where his hardness meets the space between her thighs should make her flush with embarrassment. But she is emboldened enough to pull herself impossibly closer until it is him who groans.

His grin is carnal, intent on conquest. “Is this what you want?”

She gives him the brazen words he needs to hear. “Show me how thoroughly I have damned myself. Only remember that I will be no one’s mistress.”

Another pause as he laughs humourlessly. “No, you will never be. And I should have a goddamned care about your reputation.”

Her answering smile is ironic and a little sad. “Maybe you should listen to what the lady wants.”

And then they are falling onto the settee, graceless and clumsy and artless. His lips stay on hers, his hands move underneath her skirts, roaming higher and higher until they reach her soaked drawers and linger there, just as hers caress his bare chest and work to unfasten his breeches. But then he shifts forcibly until she is on her back with both legs hiked high around his waist and him atop her.

“There is no return from this.”

It is her turn to huff a laugh. “Do not patronise me, sir.”

So he rides her with the fury of a man who _cannot be_ hers, with his palm over her mouth and with his own release hovering at the edge as she takes her pleasure from his body over and over again.

oOo

“Walk with me.”

Charlotte can only comply, despite her hesitation. It is infinitely preferable to the curious stares of the Parkers.

It is troubling that they meet once again in Sanditon a mere month later.

Sidney Parker must be on some business that surely has to do with the re-financing of the ruined buildings and her, at the behest of Tom and Mary Parker because there is apparently some matter of the utmost urgency that requires her presence.

Whatever that _matter of utmost urgency_ could possibly constitute is something she can’t fathom.

Worse yet, it is only upon her arrival that she discovers the anxiety she’d harboured throughout the long carriage ride had been entirely unwarranted, especially since it is Sidney Parker who awaits her as she steps down from it.

Tom and Mary hover like ghosts in the background, their figures small in the drawing room’s glass windows. 

To say she is startled to see Sidney is an understatement—she is convinced that Sanditon exists solely to tests her mettle—for again, it seems that the circles they move in cannot but keep colliding, much to her annoyance.

Confusion is written on her face as she looks between him and the rest of the Parkers. “I don't wish to be ill-mannered but shouldn’t I at least spare them a greeting?”

But he shakes his head, gestures towards the sea and leaves a respectable distance as he sets off, leaving her struggling to follow.

Only when they are a goodly distance from the Parkers’ house does Sidney give her a sideways glance.

“I apologise if Tom’s letter had caused you distress. You must know by now that this is entirely my doing, Charlotte. It took no small argument on my part to get Tom to extend that invitation to you. You would not have come otherwise.”

She sighs. Barely an hour past her arrival and she is already exhausted with the games they play.

“At some point in time, Mr. Parker, you will find that acceptance is a virtue. And better for all who are involved.”

He stops then and turns fully to face her. “Is it? Employ your powers of deduction, Admiral Heywood. Do you see Mrs. Campion anywhere?”

Hope—traitorous hope rises too quickly for her to nip in the bud. Indeed, Mrs. Campion is nowhere to be found. 

“I don’t presume to ask.”

The look he gives her is mildly chastening but so, so warm as he extends a hand and beckons her to him.

“You should.”

They continue walking with their hands clutched tightly, headed in the approximate direction of the clifftops as the sea ripples a bright blue in the blazing sun.

-Fin


End file.
